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The Past Future War 

               the oldies think they’re gold                                    the futures eager to occupy spaces
         the seedlings think they’re rubies                                  the pasts unwilling to leave positions
the former crowns the latter the future,                                  the latter insists on being in charge,
       yet never call themselves the past.                                  as the formers remain inexperienced.
                   

the past decides for the futures,                      the oldies think they’re justified
                      decisions require experience.                       the seedlings are just entitled
                        the oldies think they’re gold                       the oldies think they know best,
                     the seedlings are but, newbies                       the seedlings deserve less.
                

the justified wear their medals of toil      Why have the entitled,
                     the entitled tire rather too quickly      if not to bequeath your titles?
                  the justified preach hard work pays,     the oldies think they’re gold.
                             the entitled are not believers.     the seedlings think they’re rubies.
                                   

  the oldies are certain they’re intelligent,
                                                                 the intelligent assert subordination,
                                      like at a latter age comes sage.
                                                              sexual morality and cave ways.
                                   The seedlings rejoice in their ignorance,
                                                                 the ignoramus want life on their own terms,
                                    they’ll know better when they come of age.
                                                               gold belongs in the ground.

Mane 

                                                     I was taught my hair 
                                      is a disease, grass to cut short; dispose of
                               those weeds. Routinely scoured bald for school, while
                   the Indian kids played with their hair ribbons. Teachers zealously 
            hunted us with scissors, to make paths on our scalps. They grinned ear to
          ear as they mutilated our bodies. We were taught our hair was shame. They
       called our hair unkempt, for they couldn’t fathom that a mane sprouts not to be
     kempt. To them my hair was shabby, for they saw it through the colonialist’ gaze
 whose mandate they elevate. Employers demand qualified men cut their dreadlocks to 
 get hired, weighing competence by the length of the strands. Do clients seek our tresses
  or our prowess? They say men                                                    who plait hair are bayaye.
    Count the country’s                                                                        biggest crooks filling
     public offices with hairless heads.                      Forever too quick to dictate what a
        respectable man                                                                              should dress like.   
         Today, I grow my                                                                            mane carelessly,   
             shear when I                                                                            want, not when   
               they tell me.                                                                          those who find    
                   me feminine                                                                       call me she/     
                        girly, to                                                                     emasculate        
                             me. I am                                                            flattered   
                                   for woman is a synonym for beauty. What my     
                                       mane does                                 is accentuate  
                                           me. I bask in their stares as I whip my    
                                                  hair; contempt or reverence.  
                                                      A crown of pride I wear.